And I’m not? Finch had graduated from her position as undersecretary to the busy and vociferous Lucille ATerafin; she now worked in her own small office, overseeing the more standard trade deals—most notably the renewal of grants. Anything difficult or flashy was passed, as a matter of course, to Jarven’s office. Finch—and Lucille, of course—still saw most of the particulars of those contracts and proposals; Jarven insisted. She lifted her own cup of tea. Over the years, she’d become used to Jarven and his tea. It wasn’t exactly ceremonial, but it contained the elements of familiar ritual, and he insisted on it.
Lucille insisted on showing Jarven the respect that she felt was his due, which was probably the real reason it was tolerated in an otherwise frenetically busy environment.
“They seem friendly enough,” was her cautious reply.
“Do they indeed? How friendly?”
Finch smiled. “Not too friendly, but not too ingratiating.”
“Ah.” The old man sounded disappointed. “Do you recognize them?”
She did. They were all ATerafin, and most of them were her age; Paule was perhaps two years younger, although it was hard to tell.
“And can you tell me, young Finch, to whom each owes their current situation?”
“No. Lucille has to accept a new employee, and they’re all here.”
“Lucille has final refusal,” Jarven said, in the tone of voice that implied correction. “She can exercise this refusal as often as she considers wise. While The Terafin lived, wisdom was not at issue; The Terafin didn’t question her decisions.”
No one with half a thought would, in Finch’s opinion. She’d seen grown men reduced to tears of rage by Lucille. Several times. But she understood what Jarven was implying. “If any of the four were people she was likely to refuse, she’s shown no sign.”
“Ah. And Lucille is not capable of subtlety?”
“It’s not exactly her middle name.”
Jarven chuckled and sipped tea. Loudly. “Has Lucille come to any decisions about the rulership of the House?”
Finch almost dropped her tea, which would have been nothing short of disaster, as she liked her skin where it was. “P-pardon?”
Jarven raised a brow. “Finch, please. Gaping like that is beneath you. I merely asked a question that anyone of note in the House is now asking themselves.”
“Themselves, Jarven. Not me.”
“Not you? I’m surprised.”
Finch carefully set the tea back down on the tray. “No one has asked me directly,” she finally said.
“Which has the benefit of being the truth; I must admit that I’m in awe of your ability to dance out of reach of that question. You will not, however, be able to continue such a dance. You are a member of the House Council.” He didn’t bother to set his tea down; he drank it. “Have you opened any discussions with Lucille?” His gaze was sharp and clear. She both loved and hated it.
“We haven’t even had the funeral yet,” was her steady and quiet reply.
“Very well. How is young Jewel?” Jarven asked, eyeing the tea biscuits that Lucille had also laid out. The presence of biscuits or other edible food signaled the high probability of both long tea and tricky discussion; Finch had literally flinched when Lucille had peremptorily handed her the tray.
“She’s now returned to the helm of the mountain mineral concessions,” Finch replied. This was neutral enough; it was information that anyone with half an ear in the office would have.
“And that is all? I have heard the most astonishing rumors about her return.”
Finch was tired of games. Jarven would tire of them only after he tired of breathing. “She’s exhausted, Jarven.”
He nodded. “The rumors?”
“Which ones? I admit that some of the servants’ rumors have our hair standing on end; Carver’s putting them out, one at a time, but it’s taking real work.”
“She rode a stag into the House Council Hall?”
“Oh.”
“That was not rumor.”
“No, sadly. That was true.”
“She numbers, among her personal guard—and not her House Guard, which has at least doubled—someone who might not be human.”
“That one’s true as well.”
“The Chosen have offered her their support.”
“That’s false.”
“Ah. A pity.”
“Not for Jay.”
“Have the Chosen simply failed to petition her directly?”
Damn it. “She’s not accepting visitors at the moment, no. She loved The Terafin, Jarven. Whatever else you hear, that much is true. She took the death very hard; she didn’t even arrive in time to see her alive.”
“Of her den, she is the most senior of the House Council. Rumor has it,” he added, and Finch had never loathed rumor so viscerally, “that that is not the only reason she is of extreme value to the House, and to whomever rules it. You should try the almond biscuits, Finch. They’re very good. What does Jewel intend?”
“Jarven—”
“You know that any discussion held in this office cannot be heard. There is no magestone; it is not required. All of the offers and negotiations are considered delicate enough the protections are built into the walls.”
“Yes, but you’ll know.”
He chuckled. “Indeed.”
Finch had had enough. “Who,” she said, picking up her cup again, as if it were a shield and not a hazard, “will you support?”
He smiled. It was an unusual smile; it was almost predatory. She had seen Jarven for over a decade. She had been sent to his office with tea on a daily basis: rain, shine, or crisis notwithstanding. On receiving each of her three promotions, it had been made clear by Lucille that this giving of tea was still one of her primary duties, regardless of the increase in her workload.
During all of those days, months, and years, Jarven had rarely shown her the smile he offered now.
“I will,” he said quietly, “offer support to none of the current contenders. I have made my impartiality in that regard quite clear. It is why there are now four new employees under my watchful eye.”
“It’s a small wonder Lucille hasn’t strangled you. Or,” she added balefully, glancing at the teapot, “poisoned you, at any rate.”
He chuckled again. “It’s a large wonder, in my opinion. They will watch the office now. They’ll listen. They’re probably cursing,” he added, with a genial smile that was almost smug, “at the length of our little discussion.”
“Which won’t do me any favors.”
“Not entirely, no. Not at the moment. You understand that most of the House is not yet divided? The Terafin’s death was unexpected; the manner of her death was horrifying. Members of the House Council have not yet made their decision; members of the merchant fleet, while pressured, are doing their own investigations.”
“Is that a delicate way of saying entertaining offers?”
“Finch, you wound me. Of course it is. At the moment, the four new employees are passing on those offers as quickly as their little mouths can move. They are also, as they can, expediting the paperwork of the merchants whose association would be deemed the most advantageous. Are you doing anything similar?” After a moment of silence, he shook his head. “That will not do, Finch. You’ve been with me for almost two decades—”
“Fifteen years.”
“Sixteen, which is closer to twenty than ten. Don’t be a pedant. As I was saying, you’ve been with me for almost two decades. You have a much better understanding of the minutiae of this office; you certainly understand which of the various merchants and merchant houses will prove most valuable. Not all of the assumptions are gained by a mere week’s work; not even careful perusal of the filed paperwork can grant that kind of knowledge in so short a span of time.
“The four new employees will also be watching each other with more care. They’ve spoken with Lucille, inasmuch as they deem it wise; they’ve no doubt approached you as well.”
“They haven’t.”
“Ah. That shows more wisdom than haste generally allows. Tell me, Finch, why do you think they have been more or less silent around you?”
“Lucille would kill them?”
He laughed. “Well, there is that. It’s not the acceptable answer, and I’ll trouble you to give me one before you leave.”
Finch sighed. “I’m a member of the House Council. Even if I’m newly appointed. No one can withdraw that from me—and I don’t think Gabriel would try—without diminishing the value of the Council within the House. Any offers made to me will be made by the leaders of their factions.”
“And those?”
“The other House Council members.”
“Good. I will let you leave now; I believe I have some dreary appointments of my own. The office will, of course, be closed for the three days of the funeral.”
As she rose and placed everything on the tray, he said, “I hear you’ve employed Haval as your dressmaker?”
Her arms stiffened. “We have. Jay always employs Haval, when she’s given any choice in the matter.”
“Always?”
“Always.”
1st of Henden, 427 A.A.
Terafin Manse, Averalaan Aramarelas
Haval’s return to the Terafin manse was through the trade entrance, as befit his station. The trade entrance, in the manse, was quite congested; the House Guards were out in force, and the presence of clothing in various states of repair did nothing to stem their obvious suspicion of any outsider. He would have accepted this without irritation had their questions and observations not been so rote. He could have cheerfully and carefully carried poison in every pocket of his smock and they wouldn’t have blinked.
But he understood why they were being so officious a few meters past the door itself; there, he saw the tabards of the Kings’ Swords in prominent display. The gray complemented the varying blues of the Terafin colors, but its presence clashed with them in other ways. Neither set of guards were comfortable.
His understanding deepened when he saw the severe and unadorned robes of the Order of Knowledge in the open halls nearest the manse’s great kitchen. He didn’t recognize the members of the Order; most of them were younger than Haval. Nor was he ultimately troubled; the worst of the magi, excepting only the exceptional and formidable Sigurne Mellifas, were in the Dominion of Annagar, waging war alongside the Kings’ armies. Now was not the time that the Empire wished to see any demonic activity, if there was ever such a time.
But such wishes counted for little in the face of reality. Demonic activity had been detected, and the most powerful House in the Empire was now without a leader at that very moment.
Haval no longer, to his lasting regret, required great effort to feign the effects of age; he required rather more to hide them. Today, it was not required. He fretted only because time, until the funeral itself, was so short, and he had been forced to give up even the hope of a good night’s sleep. It deepened the circles beneath his eyes.
It took almost an hour to run the full gauntlet of guard, guard, and mage. Given the funeral services—and it was a full funeral of no less than three days—Haval was not the only clothier to grace the endless line. Nor was he, by any stretch, the only merchant; he was one of the more forbearing. The Terafin galleries, however, were almost empty in comparison, and he traversed these quickly, with the aid of a servant whose sole occupation seemed to consist of escorting visitors. Against his better judgment, he allowed the servant to help him carry his wares.
But he noticed, as he walked, that there were flowers strewn across the gallery floors, nestled mostly in the corner made of walls and floor. Among the flowers there were letters and other small mementos—paintings, drawings, unlit candles. Some—not all—of the hanging paintings had been covered in black and white; some of the draping cloth was edged in gold. The House mourned, in its fashion.
“She was greatly loved,” Haval said to his guide.
The man nodded gravely; it was a gravity at odds with his age. He didn’t speak, which left Haval no opening to continue, and perhaps that was best. The doors to the West Wing—guarded by four men in House colors—came into view.
“If you require assistance when you’re ready to leave, please let the guard know; someone will return for you.”
Haval thanked the servant. He also turned and answered the same set of questions posed by the very first guards he’d laid eyes on. The questions were, however, perfunctory; he was expected.
Haval entered the sitting room. Ellerson was waiting for him. Haval didn’t pretend to understand why there were two domicis in such a small space; he understood that Jewel was not entirely comfortable with the older one, and understood, as well, that the discomfort was personal. He would have asked this domicis to lead him to the rooms in which the fittings would take place, but was interrupted in this perfectly reasonable request by the sound of raised voices.
He recognized one of them quite well.
Both men turned in the direction of the shouting, and when they turned back, they exchanged a brief and almost rueful half smile.
“I must extend my apologies,” Ellerson said, offering a perfect bow. “Jewel ATerafin was expecting you, but I believe her…meeting…has gone on longer than she intended.”
Haval nodded. “From the sounds of it, it will be some time; might I trouble you for tea?”
“Of course. I will inform her that you have arrived.”
Haval took a seat. The chairs were large and comfortable, and a fire was burning in the expansive fireplace not far from the chairs. There was a small, dark table to one side of the chair, and it was to this table that Ellerson brought the requested tea. The shouting, in this room, was muted.
“Jewel wishes me to inform you that she will join you as soon as she is able,” the domicis said.
“Are they all in this meeting?”
The domicis hesitated; it was a brief silence, one a less observant man might have missed. “They are. Finch and Teller are with Jewel now, and their fittings must be seen to first, as they are expected in their respective offices with minimal delay. I have therefore taken the liberty of placing your clothing and your tools in one of the guest rooms.”
“Thank you. I took much longer to gain entrance than I anticipated, and I am unexpectedly weary. I did not think to be questioned by the Kings’ own Swords; I certainly did not expect to be inspected by the magi.”
Ellerson’s head bobbed in something too formal to be a nod. “You will encounter both again on any visit in the near future.”
“I see.” Haval knew better than to ask the domicis why. He also knew that the domicis could answer. It was always slightly frustrating to have so much information so close at hand without being able to touch it. But slight frustrations had never deterred Haval. Information that was easily available was almost without value.
Teller joined Haval within the half hour. Haval had always approved of Teller; today was no exception. He was calm, even diffident; his confidence was quiet, not loud. He could stand in a room without attracting attention, but if he required attention, he could carefully grab it. But his expression was never neutral; it was never forced.
“I’m sorry,” the younger man said, as if to reinforce this point. “Jay’ll be with you soon, but I’m in a bit of hurry.” He waited for Haval to rise and then led him—quickly—to his rooms. There he shed the outer clothing he’d been wearing, and donned what Haval had brought with him instead. Haval took his measurements, frowning and pinning as he worked. Teller, like Jewel, didn’t care for pins or needles; unlike Jewel, he didn’t flinch or hold his breath when they were being added.
“How is Hannerle?”
Haval glanced up from his work. He reminded himself that he liked Teller and that it was an entirely reasonable question, and therefore refrained from accidentally jabbing him with the wrong end of a pin. “She is,” he said, pins held in his mouth somewhat blunting the edge of his voice, if
not the words, “in a very, very unfortunate mood.”
“That’s bad?”
“It was bad enough that I considered it unwise to bring her with me—and I could have used her help.” Given the levels of unexpected interrogation, it had been more than wise to leave her at the store, proof that Kalliaris did smile, on occasion. He finished his pinning. “You are not to gain much weight in the next day, is that understood?”
“Given work and sleep, I should ask how much I’m allowed to lose instead.”
Haval managed to dredge some sympathy out of somewhere; he didn’t inspect the source too carefully. “Believe that I have seldom dreaded the respectability of a funeral so intensely.”
Skirmish: A House War Novel Page 12